


After Image

by salamanderinspace



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Famulus Centric, Gen, Haunting, Limited use of OCs, Mild Gothic Horror, POV Third Person Limited, Poker, Pre-Canon, Robots, Splices, Titus is my beloved, Why he always lyin', cerebral, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:21:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5064637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamanderinspace/pseuds/salamanderinspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Titus keeps a peculiar mirror.  Famulus keeps Titus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invocations

**Author's Note:**

> This is supposed to be a ghost story for [Jupiter Ascending Fic Challenge #5](http://fuckyeahjupiterascending.tumblr.com/post/131181199870/ja-fic-challenge-5-season-of-fear) but the ghostiness is forthcoming. Chapters will develop. Tags will update.

"Stay back, little darling!" Seraphi's warning carried across the transept of the temple. A child, ever hurtling recklessly on short legs and small feet, froze in his tracks. "You must be careful. That is a very special mirror."

"What makes it special?" he asked. Seraphi moved to meet him, her long skirts slithering over marble tile. She approached the little boy and touched the top of his head. His hair was soft; he looked up at her with large, curious eyes.

"Well, look." Seraphi pointed into the strange, distortive lens upon the altar. It was angled to miss the contents of the room and reflect a glassy scrap of sky from the ship's window. "Do you see that darkness? It is the only place where no one can see you. Or hear you, or think of you at all. Everything is weightless; everything is high in the air. You don't want that, do you? To drop into all that nothingness?" 

Little Titus looked keenly at the spattering of stars. "No!"

Seraphi laughed, and sunk to her knees. She stroked a finger over his cherubin cheek. "Now think. Did you give an honest answer? Or did you just say what I expected?"

The child looked confused and frightened. "I am always honest! Always!" 

"Shhh, darling, it's alright. Anyone can tell the truth! Do you know how hard it is to sense what people expect, and tell it to them?" Seraphi gave her son a squeeze. He clung to her like gold dust. "You know what people want, Titus. You have a special talent."

"More special than the mirror?"

"Much more special than that."

 

*****

 

After Seraphi Abrasax died, Titus slept with the curtains open.

This diverged from his usual habits. Additionally, for the first time since Famulus had come to work on Clipper D-Gamma-9, Titus went to bed alone. Famulus accepted these departures from custom. In the grand scheme of things, considering all matters affected, such small signs of cataclysm were certainly acceptable. Titus showed no other signs of grieving. None that Famulus could perceive.

The master bedroom on the clipper had many curtains. Famulus had the servitants change them frequently, in accordance with whatever profilgate character Titus needed to play. Each occasion--drinks with a foreign minister, seduction of an important client, negotiation with a splicing magnate--called for different staging. There was yellow silk and golden lace. There were red velvet drapes and black sequined backdrops. There were leaves to make the room a jungle and showers of beads to render the sea. There was something for every taste: for whomever and however Titus chose to entertain.

But he largely ceased to entertain in the wake of Her Majesty's passing.

The curtains were left off. This confirmed to Famulus that their entire purpose had been in building pleasant environs for the guests. Apart from this, Titus had no desire to mask the windows. The bedroom on Clipper D-Gamma-9 had many windows. The largest pane, directly behind the bed, was massive and grand, curved and angular. 

It laid the room bare like a stage in a theater. When the curtains were closed, Famulus was sometimes haunted by the eerie sensation of an audience huddled just beyond the fabric. Each light breeze whispered like breath; each unexplained noise, too like the rustle of clothing or the creak of an antique chair. 

Generally the windows looked out on space. If the Clipper was approaching a particularly dense star cluster, Titus would insist that his window faced away from it. Famulus knew the void to be Titus' secret fascination. She'd caught him, once, an insufficient period of time after Seraphi's death, floating naked in the zero-grav, all alone and framed against absolute darkness. Out of concern (and, admittedly, a voyeuristic curiosity) Famulus hid herself to observe her master in his solitary behaviors. There was a mirror in the room. Famulus knew it as a gift from the Abrasax matriarch: heavily ornamented in a geometric, linear fashion, and very dark. Famulus watched the glass give Titus' form a unity with space. It gave him a second body, blurring around the bevelled edge, and it gave the room a bottomless depth. When Titus drifted in the zero-grav, his reflection did just the same. When he closed his eyes, a second set of eyes were lidded. He went to sleep mouthing soft words to invisible angels: "Is this where you are, mother? Can you see me from where you are?"

Famulus crept away. When Titus woke just a short while later, he called for her.

"Famulus, look," he murmured. He gave a sleepy stretch, then smiled and struck a pose. "I'm a constellation!"

"Which one?"

"The Fool, Famulus. Can't you tell?"

"I can indeed, My Lord." She smiled. There was no residue of his private pathos.

"Famulus, dear, will you have this mirror removed?"

She was surprised by this request. Famulus had long pushed to the have the gaudy heirloom moved to deep storage, where such ostentatious decor could be tastefully concealed. Titus had always declined, wanting the mirror with him. It occurred to her, of course, that perhaps Lord Titus could not bear proximity to any reminder of his mother for one moment longer. She felt a pang of sympathy. "Right away, My Lord."

Titus swept a perceptive eye over Famulus. He fixed his face into a warm (and slightly condescending) smile. "I'm terribly sorry to be calling in the middle of the night. But you know, my dear, I'm a constant distraction to myself." He beamed. "I don't know how you manage to get anything done around me." He shined with good humor like a statue, shaped into a smile, set in ceramic glaze. 

"It is an unending challenge, My Lord," Famulus responded. "I will have the mirror removed immediately."

"Thank you." Famulus saw--for only a second--something crystal beneath the playful sheen of his expression. Titus folded and unfolded his hands; under his glossy exterior was something paralyzed. "One thing. Would you personally _supervise_ the transport to storage? This is a very special object."

"I will, absolutely." Famulus touched the node on her neck. "Requesting two splices to assist with manual labor task in the master bedroom." A voice from the servants' deck buzzed a reply in her ear. "They will be here in just a moment. In the meantime, my Lord, shall I do anything else for you?"

"Will you fetch the late FTLs? They'll be coming off the wire." Famulus was taken aback. Titus only read the mail when he was pressed--and he'd outright missed the opening Famulus left for an inappropriate remark. Titus smiled. "You know how I like to stay _on top_...of things."

 _Ah, there._ "Yes, My Lord." Famulus nodded dutifully and turned to leave. There were times when she would reciprocate his flirtation, or at least, acknowledge the terrible double entendres with a smile. This time, the innuendo had held no tension; it was a perfunctory aspect of his affectation. Audience participation was not required. It did not seem welcome.


	2. Invitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Titus and Famulus receive invitations (and extend them).

When Famulus returned to Titus' chambers, two splices were attempting to move the mirror.

Attempting, but not succeeding. Despite their obvious suitability to the task--an equine man and some type of ox-breed had received Famulus' summons--the two servants could not move the mirror at all.

Titus, far from helping, was motionless on his couch and staring idly into space. Though, Famulus' entrance did wake him abruptly from his thoughts.

"My Lord, I come bearing news."

"Yes, what is it?"

"We received an FTL this evening," Famulus declared. "The Commonwealth Ministry has been in touch. Your sister offered to host the Reading of the Will at her alcazar on Cerise."

"When?"

"As soon as all named parties can arrive. You're wanted as soon as possible."

"What a relief!" Titus exclaimed, with genuine sincerity. He stood and took the sheeve from her hands. "I was wondering if I'd even been invited. Set course for Cerise at once!"

Famulus was relieved as well. She was certainly glad to hear news of probate; there were some concerns about liquid assets this quarter. Moreover, she was glad to be docking at Cerise, where likely the Clipper would see some downtime. Most of all, however, Famulus was relieved for an excuse to pop off to navigation. This meant she could turn her back on the laborers and their mysterious problem transporting the mirror. The object unsettled her. Given its size and dimensions, it should not be so heavy. "At once, My Lord."

On her way out, she heard Titus instructing the two splices. "Please, don't bother about that now. Wouldn't you rather help me to dress?"

 

*****

 

Upon arrival at the Cerisean capital--a port city known as Carmine---Titus called a great many splices down to the transit bay. He was, Famulus thought, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed; though he did ask her to help him practice "a grave and sober demeanor, for my grieving siblings' sake."

He picked his favorites for the landing party, then instructed his stylist and tailor on how he wanted the entourage to look. Famulus was uncertain whether she should change; she hated letting others choose her clothing or touch her hair. "Will you require me on world, My Lord?"

"I perpetually require you, Famulus. But if you'd like to stay with the ship, I'll be well cared for..." Titus waved at his growing crowd of over-styled courtesans. Famulus raised an eyebrow when she saw the horse and ox splice smiling smugly amongst those who made the cut. She raised both when she saw the outfits the stylist put them in.

"What do you think?" Titus asked. "Don't they look impressive?"

"My Lord does prefer his diplomats fit," Famulus quipped, "and well-oiled."

"I seek only a tactical advantage in negotiation," Titus explained. "My sister likes muscles. It may distract her."

Famulus sighed and clutched her forehead. "Well, Balem's entourage will include Sargorn. So I doubt anyone will have all their eyes on you." She handed him a sheeve with the day's agenda. "Please be careful."

"Famulus, please. Relax." He smoothed down his jacket. "In fact, take a short leave, won't you? Cerise is beautiful this time of year."

"Thank you, My Lord. But I do have quite a bit to do on board."

"All work and no play..." But Titus was no longer attentive. He was making eyes at an iridescent splice while the tailor fitted her for a bustier. 

Perceiving herself to be dismissed, Famulus left the party to their primping. There were pressing matters on her to-do list. First, there was all the business associated with docking: requests for shore leave, extra correspondence, paperwork to file with the Marshals and Admins, and inventory management. Fortunately there was a certain efficiency of work that could only be achieved during Titus' absence. Famulus set the Clipper to run a full self-diagnostic and self-maintenance routine. After that, she called a meeting of domestic droids and updated their task queues. "Romeda, you can cancel your subroutines pertaining to Lord Titus' meals until tomorrow mid-day. He'll be dining on Cerise."

"Very well," replied an obsequious sim. They were programmed to interface with executive staff. With their organic frame, fine clothes, and entirely convincing AI, Romeda was human enough that Famulus counted them a friend. "Will there be any actions to add?"

"No--" Famulus hesitated-- "Actually, yes. Please have the mirror in Lord Titus' master bedroom moved to deep storage. That will be all."

"Very well." Romeda bowed and departed. Famulus suffered not a modicum of guilt in staffing out the chore. She had learned to make space for herself.

Swinging by the mailroom, Famulus picked up the afternoon FTLs. There she enjoyed a message:

_Dearest Famulus. Will I be seeing you soon? Your master arrived at this mornings' proceedings looking dapper, as per usual. But you'll have heard of that in other messages._

_So far, we've spent the afternoon waiting. There was a private memorial service and monument dedication for the late Queen. I thought it profoundly elegant and sad. We endured none of the chaos from the actual funeral, thought our Lord Titus baited Lord Balem most distressingly._

_Enough talk of that. I know how you're fond of card games, so I hope you'll join us tonight in a round of Rekibock? And by US I'm afraid I mean Maledictes and I. I'm terribly awkward around him but they keep lumping senior staff together for these events. Couldn't evade him at the luncheon. I intend to take his money._ **Where are you?** __

_Yours,_

_C. R. Night_

Famulus was tempted to join the game. She had seen Mr. Night in the presence of Maledictes--he was not awkward, exactly, but neither was he composed. Famulus enjoyed the squirming. The men were dangerous and gifted, each in their own right, and each a different category of tense; each had been drunk beyond pretense with Famulus, on separate occasions. 

She considered leaving at once for Carmine but opted instead to send a reply. "Will be there. Don't begin without me." She had one final task on her list for the day. She needed to meet with the Clipper's chief engineer. 

An ape splice, short and squash-faced, he frowned at her orders: "When the system finishes self-correcting, I'd like you to check for problems. We should probably be in top shape to move _before_ the Reading concludes."

"Aww, Famulus, no!" He lifted his hat and scratched his head in a primate manner. "I was hoping to hit the surface. I just cashed my check!"

"I'm sorry to disappoint you." But Famulus considered a moment. She wanted the clipper in prime shape for departure. She also wanted to gamble. "I _suppose_ you could take the evening off. Do you play Rekibock?"


	3. Illusions

Famulus could not, for her soul, remember if she had ever been to the Rekibock parlors of Carmine, the Capital city, or where they might be located. There had been too many venues over too many decades. Fresh in her mind were the innumerable smoky squats of Orous; further back there were countless decadent dens of greater and lesser Entitled Houses. Finally, there were the waste-world holes and frigid roosts of underdeveloped territories. Around her second--or was it third?--recode, this multitude of dusky game rooms began to interchange in the recesses of Famulus' memory. She kept detailed notes, when convenient, to direct herself on the return to a familiar place. She also recorded wins, losses, effective and defective strategies, and distinguished players. In fact, her notes amounted to something of an archive. 

Were Famulus not so organized, it might take hours to ferret out a map of Cerise, and to discover, under ultraviolet light, the seedy back-alleys stored in invisible ink. As it was, Famulus knew precisely where to look for such a document. Famulus unlocked her nightstand and swept her hands across the secure cover of a preciously vintage paper diary. Her quarters were dimly lit. Unlike Titus' master bedroom, the windows were artificial; she'd programmed them to display a forest glade at dawn. The simulated appearance of a yellow star, straining over a false horizon, scattered light through a veil of decorative plants. A little ray bounced off the rose-gold gilt of the notebook cover. Famulus opened the book and then, immediately, shut it. 

Her left ear twitched and flapped. There was someone at the door.

She did not wait for the small chime of the intercom. Gracefully, she crossed the carpet and touched the control panel.

"Good evening, Famulus. I had hoped to catch you here. I hope I do not intrude?" Chicanery Night's soft, high voice entered before him. He glanced around the room. "My goodness. Stories of your exquisite taste do not exaggerate."

"Please. I am flattered more than enough aboard this vessel." She smiled, and closed the booklet. "You are unexpected, but hardly intrusive."

"I came to see if you needed directing. The venue can be quite difficult to locate." 

"Our bond is stronger than my memory. I was just resigning myself to glance at a map of the city. Please," she clutched her notebook against her hip. "Lead the way."

The rat-splice crept his way over the Clipper with expertise. Though he had not visited the D-Gamma-9 before, the navigation of dark tunnels came naturally to his kind. Famulus revered this skill with tenderness and caution. She'd met two other rat splices in her travels, and all were dangerous after the fashion of asbestos. Quietly dangerous, like a poison that lurks in the walls and slowly disintegrates.

Lars, the engineer, was waiting in transit bay. He could not have provided a starker contrast to Mr. Night: hunched, where the rat was primly upright, and overdressed in a tuxedo bunching around the neck. Mr. Night was impeccably coiffed.

"Looking good, Famulus," Lars leered. "Eh, if I'm allowed to say so?"

"You may say whatever you like," Famulus said, "as long as you bring Cs." She felt a smile curl against the line of her lips. She looked forward to winning.

The three card-players departed together. They charted a path through the Cerisean city, night falling over the pink-petaled gardens on the banks of a glittering river. It occurred to Famulus that, perhaps, she couldn't recall the landscape because she'd tucked its profound majesty into a stealthy corner of her heart, where she would not long for it. The melodious churning of pools, the thrilling height of aqueducts, and even the quartz-pebble alleyways all shimmered in the moonlight, making music of water, paced like water: soft and loud, slow and fast, small and mighty. The salon itself was closeted in a dark dimple of the palace. The three players entered through the water-door of a private garden launch; Famulus experienced the eerie recollection of a place that she'd been while drunk. 

A single lamp washed hard blue light over a marble table. Two Sargorn and tall, fowl-feathered Maledictes already sat in wait. The edges of the space were lost to an exquisite, liquid darkness; the shadows crept in.   
A Sargorn pulled a bottle out of somewhere-or-other. He poured with incipient excitement, passing around crystal clear glasses of acrid cooler. With herself, Famulus noted, the players numbered six. She counted out cards around the table and she had a peculiar thought.

The table reminded her of that mirror. That, too, was six-sided, polished, and dark.

_Why am I thinking of that?_ Famulus wondered. How it weighed on her! She wondered if Romeda had successfully moved the thing.

Then the cards were dealt and she put it out of her mind.

"You missed a fantastic dedication this afternoon, Famulus," said Maledictes. "Lady Kalique's gift for managing such events is extraordinary. What a shame it didn't fall to us to arrange the funeral." Famulus agreed with this pointed sentiment, thought she'd never say so. Titus' attempt to host Seraphi's funeral had been...poorly received. The tone of the event had come off too festive, too highly produced; the media called it "tacky, as expected." Of course Famulus had advised the young Abrasax to scale down the itinerary. He'd insisted on musicians, fire-spinners, and the glass fountain of champagne. Famulus had arranged it all, with some reservation. Despite her participation in the event--and her awareness of the critical opinion--she did not feel inclined to allow Maledictes his unsubtle jabs.

"I was under the impression, Maledictes, that it might have been your mistress who _murdered_ Seraphi Abrasax. That rings a little louder than a tacky remembrance, don't you think?"

A few gasps and Chicanery's muted "ooooh!" echoed around the table. All eyes turned to Maledictes. "Kalique?" He looked offended. "Not at all possible. I find it to be much more likely that Her Majesty isn't even really dead."

The table fell into a shocked silence. "Like she faked it, d'you mean?" Lars blurted out.

Maledictes shook his head. "No." He leaned in, so that the harsh light cut deep shadows under his birdish brow. "There are ways to be dead and alive, simultaneously."

Chicanery shuddered at this. "Can we possibly avoid talk of such absurdities? By turning to the game, perhaps?"

"I agree," Famulus said. Her heart beat with an insoluble quickness. "I think we're all a bit old to be telling ghost stories."

"What?" Maledictes looked offended. "No, no! Ghosts! I implied nothing of the sort. I am speaking of a Recurrence!"

"A Recurrence?!" Chicanery exclaimed. "That-that's even more ludicrous than a ghost!"

Famulus felt differently but she was relieved the conversation had shifted. "Yes, Maledictes, what are you saying? You know how difficult it is to arrange for a Recurrence. It requires millennia of genetic planning, plus the establishment of a hefty trust. Seraphi was practical; she would never waste the resources." She overturned the top card on one of the three decks in the center of the table. "Speaking of which, imps are high. Prepare to bet."

"She was a vengeful woman," Maledictes huffed. "I wouldn't be so sure of her practicality." Surely, Famulus thought, he spoke of the rift between Seraphi and his Lady, Kalique. There'd been unresolved resentment in that house. Yet something about the comment adhered itself uncomfortably to Famulus' thoughts. 

She WAS a vengeful woman. Would she have been displeased with the flippant funeral Lord Titus arranged? Surely. Surely, she'd be displeased with all of her children...the way they carried on...why, if she could see them now...

_Could she see them? Wherever she was?_

Famulus watched Maledictes sip his drink disdainfully. It was a tell; his hand was bad. She glanced at her own eight cards, then collected the nine bartering stones she would use for the first round of trades. "Alright, Maledictes. I'll spare three jewels for a spirit card, if you've got one?" 

He shifted in his seat, unsure. "How could I refuse?"

Famulus grinned as they made the swap. She charted her play like a map in her mind and tried not to see Seraphi's eyes in every polished surface.


	4. Illumination

Upon Famulus' return to the Clipper she discovered the ship in a state of panic. She was immediately informed of a massive power outage. It affected systems on three decks; what's more, the androids working on those decks had completely powered down.

"Must have been a magnetic field," Lars postulated. He clutched one apish hand to his forehead and groaned. Famulus presumed, going by his consumption at the Rekibock table, that he was slipping hastily into a hangover. "I can get things up and running again."

"Please see that you do." Famulus considered going to bed. She was exhausted from a bad beat to Chicanery, who'd ultimately won the night. With most of the ship's splices on-world, there was no hurry to restore power--it would take days to lose life-support systems. On the other hand, no work could be done without staff. Several androids would need to be powered-on manually. Famulus didn't want to presume that Lars had _everything_ under control.

 _I'll start on the androids,_ Famulus decided. "Can you locate Romeda for me?" Reactivating the head of domestic staff immediately would preempt a great deal of work in the morning.

"Sure thing!" Lars swept his hairy thumb over a touchscreen panel. He squinted at the coordinates displayed. "Huh, that's odd. Romeda's last ping came from deep storage. Right in the center of the disturbance."

"Deep storage?" Famulus felt herself dipped in a sticky, slippery horror. She knew, logically and incontrovertibly, that Romeda would be located in the proximity of the mirror. Clinging to her spot of floor like the residue of a spilled drink gone dry, Famulus re-evaluated the trip to deep storage during an outage. _Down into the very pit of the ship,_ she thought, _and at high noon of night!_

Of course the absurdity of this thought brought Famulus to her senses. There was no day or night in space; she was just tired from the long game, unwittingly adjusting to the rhythms of Cerise. Surely, Famulus reasoned, a short errand in storage before bed would only take a moment. 

She took a power cell and a brass lantern and began the journey to the storage deck. As expected, the ship was silent and empty, Titus and his coterie of splices being absent from their quarters. When she crossed over into the area affected by the outage Famulus was swallowed by a startling pitch-dark. Wondering how long it would take Lars to reinvigorate the lights, she kept her eyes peeled for a fuse-box. The Clipper seemed so much larger in the dark. She had a vague fear she might get lost.

 _Whoosh._ Famulus heard the air system turn on, then turn off again. The doors on the ship, normally sealed in an outage, could be heard sliding open and shut on the decks above and below her. She dismissed this with mild trepidation; perhaps there were still some minor magnetic anomalies affecting operations. She continued along, now almost to the massive glass entry-port leading down to deep storage.

Suddenly, every door in the corridor where she stood snapped open.

Famulus froze. Bursts of cold air came through like pulses. She jerked around; it had felt like something was touching her, right in the small of her back. Nothing was there.

She willed herself to calm. Deer splices could be skittish, she knew, though she never paid much attention to conventional wisdom about what splices were or weren't. In this moment, she chalked up her scare to genetics, and kept on.

The cavernous space the Clipper housed for deep storage was a pirate's den in the dark. Chests spilled over with gold, jewels, fine clothes and wares; Famulus half expected to stumble across a mound of old bones. It took a long time to locate Romeda. Famulus' singular candle made barely a dent against the heaps of treasure and shadows. When finally the lantern-light fell on Romeda's titanium frame, Famulus was relieved. Even the wayward flicker of light reflecting in the hideous hexagonal mirror didn't spook Famulus now that she had a companion. She booted Romeda as quickly as possible.

"Romeda, what happened?" Famulus asked, when the android finished her boot cycle.

"I'm sorry, when do you mean?" A blip in Romeda's AI. In her desperate relief at seeing a familiar face, Famulus had forgotten. Romeda was, essentially, a program.

Famulus remembered herself and phrased the question more literally. "Romeda, report on events leading up the the magnetic disturbance. Go twenty tics prior, please."

"Retrieving data: 20 tics. Data not found."

"Not found?" Famulus wrinkled her brow in confusion. Not only was the missing data suspect but Romeda's responses weren't usually quite so mechanical. "Alright, go forty tics prior."

"Retrieving data: 40 tics. Data not found."

 _She's been wiped._ The erasure of Romeda's drive was, perhaps, a greater cause for alarm than anything else Famulus had yet endured. Because AI subroutines took so long to evolve and perfect, androids had safeguards for their memory, even against magnetic fields. The memory loss was unsettling, as if a good friend had taken a bad fall.

"Alright. Follow me. Let's get out of here."

"Command detected: follow. Ready," Romeda replied, in a factory-default tone.

Famulus was just gutted. She'd miss Romeda's personality, as it had developed. She suddenly felt terribly alone once more. Then, as she turned to exit deep storage, something caught her eye. Something that made her feel quite a bit less alone.

There was a face in the mirror.

Not just any face. The very countenance and likeness of Her Majesty Seraphi Abrasax. It sat on the surface of the mirror as the moons do on a black, bottomless lake: glowing brightly, rippling just a little when she moved.

And she did move. She looked around the storage room, casting her eyes to and fro in a haughty and dismissive manner. Then her lips quivered into motion and she spoke. The sound knifed through the room like a wineglass dropped.

"Titus?" Seraphi called. "Titus? Titus, my darling, where are you?" Her wandering gaze found Famulus, who was standing directly in front of the mirror, frozen, her common sense rapidly dissolving and trickling down the back of her spine. "I have a message. Listen closely, now..."

"Titus, my darling boy. Do you remember when I gave you this mirror? You must. It was the only time I ever gave you something you wanted."

"You'll be attending the Reading of the Will soon enough. Forgive me. I gave your brother everything and I gave you nothing, in death as in life. Darling, I have my reasons. There is a weight he carries. I taught him the rules of this game we play and I instilled in him an obligation to win. Winning is important to me, you know. _You_ know what that means." The apparition made eye contact with Famulus, who abruptly recalled her competitive streak at the Rekibock table.

"Balem is ambitious. I am certain, in fact, that his ambition has been, one way or another, the direct cause of my death. He thinks he's made the final move, upended the table. But darling-" Seraphi's gaze wandered out into the dark of the warehouse again, as if she was calling to Titus in the very shadows. "Darling, here's your chance to catch up!"

"I've arranged for my genome to recur in the year 7455x15 on a planet known as Earth. Find the girl. Make contact before Balem can discover you have done so. I have endowed the Recurrence with an admirable trust: enough that, should it fall into your hands, you will control the Regenex market. Persuade the Recurrence--by whatever means necessary--to ally herself to you, and you will have earned your place at the top of Abrasax Industries. Use your gifts, my darling. I am confident that you will use this opportunity to demonstrate your own ambitions and to proove to me, at long last, that you are the son most suited to lead."

Then the ghost faded, like the shine coming off a new coin, and the mirror was dull. Famulus was left alone with her lantern and with Romeda's shell, still as a corpse, in the kind of quiet that brackets an audience at a symphony, the silent awe and intake of breath reminding them that they do, in fact, exist, and so must applaud.


	5. Illness

"A recording? Famulus, I don't think I can, today."

She'd decided to present the message to Titus as a recording, and only that. After two days at dock, bringing the Clipper back up to speed, Famulus had, in fact, well and truly convinced herself of this little version of events. Seraphi Abrasax was clever. She may have concealed a hologram in the mirror just as data would be etched to a sheeve. She'd set the message to trigger through a magnetic field, which itself would be triggered by the Reading of the Will on Cerise. Famulus didn't know the specifics, she just knew that this was the most likely explanation for what happened in the storage room. It made sense. It was all terribly plausible. It was entirely the whole version of the truth.

"It's an encrypted recording, my Lord," Famulus told Titus, as she kept telling herself. "I think it's best if you view it before we depart these coordinates."

"But _why?_ " Titus was all in a huff, having returned from the Reading in a foul mood. He wore his usual wounds of war--a hangover, a diffuse cloud of insecurity, a stiff and anxious gait--typical after returning from any prolonged family gathering. The Abrasax family sickness seemed to settle heavy on his brow this time around. Famulus was certain that quibbling over the inheritance left him dejected.

"I believe it may inform the specifics of the Will," Famulus explained. This was as much truth as she would tell. 

Titus lifted a curious brow. "Well, alright. I do trust you, my dear. Show me."

The descent to the storage area imposed none of the eerie ambiance of Famulus' previous trip. It was, in fact, mundane, with Titus sashaying along in tow. The only moment of disquiet was the instant at which the mirror loomed into view. Rounding a corner, Famulus saw the thing: a jagged shard of dark gleam--taller, each time, than she remembered it. Her skin prickled with alarm. Titus was similarly affected. He looked up at the glassy plane with the pale, sweating face of a masquerader exposed by a passing prankster's rude yank of his disguise. 

"So the message is in the mirror, correct?" Titus confirmed. He turned on her with his small and naked expression. "Please proceed, Famulus."

Famulus nodded, holding a nervous breath. She'd located a small but powerful magnet, hoping the magnetic field would trigger the ghost--the recording--a second time. She clutched it tightly, hand shaking, fingertips turning white. "Here goes." Sliding the talisman up and down before the mirror, Famulus awaited any sign of Seraphi's reanimated portraiture.

They waited, and waited. Nothing happened.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she stammered. "I thought this would activate the recording--"

"No fear at all, my dear!" Titus croaked. He looked relieved. "I'm far too exhausted to deal with this now, at any rate. If there's anything else pressing, call on me at my quarters?"

"Of course, my Lord."

Dismayed, Famulus sped off toward her own quarters. Her thoughts had become disordered; she needed familiar space to orient again. Since Seraphi's face first appeared in that mirror, the whole ship had taken on a foreign and sinister look, as if every surface were dipped in the void and damp with it. She half expected her shoes to make a wet sound, connecting with the steel floors; the "click click click" of heels was a comfort. She could almost hear the canter of something cloven-hooved in her own step. At that moment, she needed this; she needed something natural, something just her own, to pull her back into her usual state of civilized and enviable composure. She was breathing quick when she reached for the doorpad to her rooms, envisioning her special woodland scene on the artificial window screens.

Yet, on entering the room, the tasteful ambiance didn't draw Famulus' eye, nor did it bring her comfort. She was too distracted by an item floating unexpectedly out-of-place in her anti-grav.

Her rose-gold notebook.

She crossed the room and seized the precious catalog of secrets. Paging through it, she sought the litany of her notes: decades, if not centuries of carefully-kept records. _They were all gone._ In their place was a message:

"ALL BETS ARE OFF"

The words were written in heavy red gush. Famulus was certain this was blood. She knew she needed to breathe air in and out to survive and she knew the red fluid on the pages was the effusion of some unknown violently injured body; such was the nature of her certainty.

Famulus dropped the book and fled. Like a doe in the woods, she sprang through the ship, a horned blur of brown hair and wide eyes. She could not think. She was not thinking when she discovered herself at the door to Titus' quarters, or when she entered, without knocking. She most certainly was not thinking clearly then--because what she saw, no conscious mind could produce by uninhibited intellectual process. 

It was a waking nightmare.

Titus stood naked before the mirror. _How had it materialized in his quarters?_ Famulus did not know, nor did Titus appear to. He regarded the object as one regards an intruder; he looked like he'd been caught in the act of undressing. He was transfixed, mouth open, aghast at the reanimated portrait of Seraphi Abrasax. She had returned.

 _"---you will use this opportunity to demonstrate your own ambitions and to prove to me, at long last, that you are the son most suited to lead!"_ The message finished just as it had for Famulus, in deep storage. Titus continued to stare until Seraphi faded into the glass. He gasped, a little, when she was fully gone; a child-like "oh" escaped his mouth. 

Then the color returned to his face. He waved to his dressing-sim and, with a dramatic sweep, manifested raiments over himself to suit a leisurely prince. He turned to his faithful servant. 

"Hang the white curtains in here, Famulus," Titus instructed. "Satin and tulle. We're going be planning a wedding."


End file.
